The Sound of Breaking Glass
by almcvay1
Summary: Three-part smangst (smut angst) with Red & Lizzie on the run.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So instead of working on what I am supposed to be doing, I did this. It's unbeta'd and definitely M. Hugs to the Gutterbugs for declaring it worthy. I own nothing. Really.

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The Mirror

Red flinched as he peeled the sleeve of his dress shirt away from the bloody flesh underneath. One more scar to add to the collection adorning his aging body. He would have liked to say that he bore them with dignity, but the standing mirror showed him the pitiless truth. He was no longer the man he used to be. On a good day, with his bespoke armor surrounding him, he could pull off the effect of the cavalier criminal. But when you stripped away the tailoring, the fine fabrics, he was just old and tired with the scars of far too many battles marring his flesh.

This latest was merely a graze across his shoulder, but without Dembe to assist, tending to it would require some effort. The sound of steps echoed in the hall outside his door had him glancing at the door to check the lock. Lizzie could not see this. He had already failed to keep her off his path of destruction; the least he could do was not trouble her with his injuries. Truth be told, he couldn't stand for her to see him like this. Vulnerable, wounded, the lion in winter. He closed his eyes and pictured her on the beach in Cuba, glowing in the warm sun, the purple sundress showing off her smooth skin and firm muscles. He had clenched his teeth until his jaw ached to keep from touching her. From telling her what he needed, wanted from her.

His hands shook as he cleaned the laceration, and he took a sip of scotch, hoping to steady his hand. Thoughts of Lizzie still danced in his brain, though he tried to chase them away. She still thought he was her hero. He would give anything, including his life, to make that true. But it wasn't. It never had been. Now they were on this road of the damned side by side; she was there all the time. He had no respite from the desire she triggered deep inside him. The desire that had been there the moment she walked down those steps at the Post Office. The florescent lights had created a halo around her face and she had captured his entire heart and soul in the passing of a second.

The dress shirt now lay discarded across the bed of their latest safe house, as he carefully taped the gauze over the wound. He took another long sip of scotch, almost daring his thoughts to take a turn from his own pain. He yanked the leather belt from his trousers and toed off his shoes, no longer trying to censor the visions of Lizzie in his mind. He could picture her in a tank top and sweatpants, eating cereal at some kitchen table in Spain. Her breasts swelling under the low scoop neck, perfectly sized and shaped, as elegant as tree ripened peaches. He bit his lip, perhaps harder than he meant to, feeling himself harden against the fabric of his trousers. His hand slid down his stomach to stroke once, twice, on the third stroke he opened his eyes and realized he was still standing in front of the mirror. He took a much bigger sip of the liquor in the glass before undoing the buttons and zipper; his fingers touching bare skin, hard and almost feverishly hot. He allowed himself the pleasure of it, his eyes sliding closed as Lizzie appeared in his dream.

She was behind him; he could see her in the mirror. Her lips traced the moonscape of his shoulders like silk and fire. Her slim hands with those long, elegant fingers sliding around his waist, tracing his hipbones as he hissed in a breath. The arousal was bordering on pain at the moment, so desperately did he need her touch. But he couldn't bear to lay his hands, bloody as they were, on her soft skin. He stood, aching and ravenous, as her hands smoothed over his chest, threading through the light hair sprinkled there, caressing his abdomen until he moaned, almost pleading with the shadow goddess reflected in glass. Finally, her fingers wrapped around his length, circling, almost measuring the generous girth of him. Her touch was an insidious pleasure, each stroke, each time she changed the angle and her grip was a fresh wave of sensation that would drag him under. He had never been so willing to drown.

Her movements were quicker now, using the slick liquid that wept from the tip to ease the way. His breathing was labored, almost stuttering as she drove him to the edge and left him there for a moment. The mental movie in his head flashed through picture after picture, some real, some fantasy. Lizzie at the beach, smoothing on suntan lotion. Lizzie on her knees in front of him, her beautiful mouth torturing him endlessly. The coil inside him wound tighter with each image, until it snapped, tearing a harsh groan from his throat as hot liquid spilled over his fingers. His knees buckled with the pleasure and he sat quickly on the chair behind him. His heart slowed from the frantic pace that orgasm induced and his breath was easier, deeper.

His eyes opened again. The spell was broken and he reached for his scotch on the table beside him. There was no Lizzie in the mirror, just a broken man in undone trousers, scarred and far too frightened of the woman he loved more than anything. He turned away in disgust, thinking of her sleeping just across the hall. Lizzie had entrusted him with her life, even after he had torn the one she had made into shreds. He didn't deserve to touch her, he acknowledged that truth. The frustration at that fact simmered just below his skin, fed on the love and desire in equal measure, knowing both to be beyond his reach. With teeth gritted against the primal cry, he flung the glass at the mirror, watching it shatter and fall from the frame.

He scrubbed a hand over his face in exhaustion. Seven years bad luck. Perfect.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Disclaimed and un-beta'd. NSFW. May the universe have mercy on my soul.

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The Wine Glass

They sat silently by the fire, in chairs across from each other, sipping their chosen poison, each lost in their own thoughts. Freshly showered, their wounds tended, the light played with the fiery red wine swirling in Lizzie's glass, sparkled in the amber anesthetic that Red preferred. Lizzie had never developed a palate for scotch. She studied him in the dim light; he carried a few new bruises, mostly on his knuckles. A meeting that became a bar brawl when negotiations went sideways. Lizzie had taken the precaution of slipping brass knucks on right before it got ugly, so the fight didn't go as badly as it could have. They were both a little worse for wear, but on the up side, neither were they dead.

She picked up her glass and stood, holding the delicate stem between fingers that had clawed and gouged not four hours ago. Red was angry, and she didn't know if that anger was all for her. He hadn't spoken since he had ordered the drinks from room service. She stood barefoot on the cold tile by the wet bar, slowly refilling her glass of wine. She took a few sips as she crossed the room to the huge picture window, watching the lights of the Las Vegas strip dance outside in the darkness. She knelt carefully on the little settee, resting her arms on the cushioned back. She saw his approach reflected in the glass and she's struck, as always, by the efficient grace of his movements. So contained and yet fluid, like a prizefighter on his way to the ring. Even in flannel sleep pants and a t-shirt. He stood close behind her, only a breath away so she could almost feel his touch, watching her watch the night.

"I told you to leave the room, Lizzie." His tone was harsh, even abrupt. Lizzie instinctively wanted to curl in on herself, thoroughly chastened. So she did the opposite, stiffening her spine and jerking her chin up as she turned to face him, all haughty belligerence.

"Probably better for you that I didn't. You couldn't have fought all of them at once."

"I would have managed better had I not been worried about saving your beautiful ass." Her eyebrows shot up at this, and, unless she was wrong, so did her body temperature. He had never said anything so pointed to her, not in the six months they had been running. It was always little jokes, tiny innuendoes that never went anywhere. Anytime she stepped close, he would back away, almost as though he was afraid of her, and she would back off just as quickly, fearing his rejection. Maybe tonight they had both found their courage. She took a sip of her wine to cool her suddenly dry throat.

"Oh, really? Except we had no weapons, and my throwing the first punch may well have kept them from killing us. So the way I see it, my beautiful ass just saved yours, so deal with that." She gave her hair a toss, turning back to window. He stood behind her, still and quiet except for the unbelievable amount of raw tension pouring off of him like water. She forced herself to stay still. Always before, she let his intensity make her retreat, but she was tired of running away. Sometimes things have to break to be fixed. She held her position and waited to see what he would do.

His touch is a whisper on her skin, feather light through her sleep tank, trailing down her spine. Lizzie closes her eyes to focus on the pinpoint of heat. She willed herself to remain aloof, sipping her wine slowly trying to keep her breathing steady. She needs him, physically, like she needs air. He's her gravity, keeping her grounded and solid on the earth. Somewhere in her mind, she felt the wine glass slip to the tile and shatter with a musical crash. But, her entire awareness has dwindled to the touch of his single finger on her back.

His hand slid up into her hair, tugging gently, pulling the dark strands away from her neck as he closes the gap between them. The feel of his lips on her neck elicited a choked gasp from her throat as he began to stroke the sensitive skin with his tongue and then his teeth. He nibbled gently on her earlobe, kissing it wetly and the sound echoed in her head like a gunshot. She can't prevent the guttural moan from escaping; indeed she's already too far gone to try.

His hands are everywhere at once and she can't keep track. The fire he lit spread without pause over her entire body and she is burning like a torch for him. Callused palms teased her breasts, pulling aside the thin fabric he ripped in half to lightly pinch the hardened buds, pinching just a bit harder when she turned her head and sank her teeth into his neck. He tasted of whiskey and smoke and it drove her mad. She needed more than this teasing. She grabbed one of his hands and shoved it down where the heat gathered into unbearable tension. He took the hint, but as always, Red had his own way of doing everything. His fingertips were gentle as they stroked her, learned the geography of her most guarded secrets, gathering the moisture from her core and dragging it up to the bundle of nerves tucked away at the top. She quivered in his arms, completely supported by his body behind her as he played her like a maestro plays his instrument, his touch deft and sure, he sent her spiraling into the dark.

Red shoved the settee back against the window and lifted Lizzie to sit on the high back, turning her to face him, sliding off her sleep shorts. The rush of cool air to her overheated flesh made her shiver. He knelt on the cushion, pushing her thighs apart; laying his cheek against her skin. Lizzie leaned back against the window behind her, letting the cool glass take her weight. Her limp fingers raked through his short hair and he moaned quietly. She tried to pull his head up, she wanted to kiss him, but he gathered her wrists in his one hand and held them, not allowing her to touch. It was a fine, cruel torture, as he knelt between her legs, drawing in her most intimate scent as though he could never get enough.

His lips and breath teased her mercilessly, never quite touching her, and never where she so desperately wanted his touch. Just a ghost of sensation, as he dragged his mouth across her belly, down the inside of her thighs, until Lizzie was almost crawling out of her own skin, pleading incoherently with the man holding her pleasure in a clenched fist. When he finally set his mouth on her, her scream could have shattered glass.

She came down from the high slowly, drifting in the haze and aftershocks of pleasure as he gathered her into his arms and tucked her beneath the covers of the large bed. She felt him kiss her forehead, softly, before he withdrew. He lay next to her in the dark; she could feel him watching her. She reached for him, intending to give him the same pleasure he had given so generously, but both her hand and her heart stopped at the look on his face. She had seen that look before, all closed and cold. Was he regretting this already? Was this all a mistake? The last dregs of the oxytocin fled her brain and turned out the lights as it left.

"Red? I thought…I mean, don't you want…" she couldn't finish the sentence. Self-doubt had come slithering into her mind. He had given her pleasure, taking nothing for himself and she had more or less thrown herself at him. Shame crept in alongside the doubt as she worried that perhaps she had taken advantage of him somehow. She knew it was nonsense, of course. Knew he had been just as involved as she was, and the constant tug-of-war between them was just a way for him to create space between them. She couldn't seem to make him understand that she wanted him closer. He just kept backing away.

"Lizzie, I…" He began but she shut her eyes and turned away from him. She didn't want to hear whatever pat excuse he had ready for her. She needed to sleep, to pull herself back together. She told herself as she lay in the quiet that her feelings were not even remotely hurt, just a nick to her pride. It was a long way from her heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N** : Last chapter on this one. Big hugs to everyone for being so amazingly supportive of this story. I can't thank you all enough. And of course, love to my gutterbugs, for everything.

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The Window

Red searched through his pockets furiously, cursing under his breath as the rain came down in sheets. He could've sworn he put them in his pocket before they had gone to dinner in downtown Nantucket, and now, admittedly after several good New England beers, he could not find the damn keys to their cottage. He glanced over at Lizzie, standing flat against the wall, under the eaves, trying to avoid getting soaked. He ran through all of his curses in English and began on the foreign languages; he had been hoping to have one twenty-four hour period that wasn't riddled with bullets and disaster. Up until now, things had gone well. Except that they were now locked out in the middle of a deluge.

They had arrived in Nantucket the previous evening on the ferry from Hyannis Port, a friend of Red's had agreed to lend his charming saltbox cottage on the island just outside of the town. The place was clean and cozy, having been rented recently to some tourists from Lancaster. They had spent the day strolling through the main street, checking out the shops, enjoying a late lunch at a pub near the docks. It almost felt normal. He sighed inwardly as he peered through the window of the back door and saw the keys lying on the kitchen table. Lizzie watched him with her delft-blue eyes as he pulled out his pistol, using the butt to break out a pane of glass in the door. He reached through, unlocked the door and held it for her to precede him inside.

She shrugged out of her coat and hung it on a peg in the kitchen. Red followed suit then hunted down a broom and dustpan to clean up the glass at the entry. With the glass disposed of; he poured them each a drink and carried them to the living room. Lizzie had lit the gas firelog and the light was warm. They sat companionably, watching the fire while the rain wrapped the world in grey.

Lizzie knelt beside him on the couch. Her eyes glowed fever-bright in her flushed face. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask what she was thinking, but the words disappeared before he could form them. Her lips caught his and he was lost, everything went hot and soft and bright at once as he tentatively returned the kiss. He paused, drew back, needing to be sure about this. Her eyes were hooded, but fully aware, and just like that, he surrendered.

Gone was the hesitancy, as his lips claimed and then began to devour slowly. The sweetness of her mouth was beyond words and he swallowed the tiny, mewling whimpers like the smoothest scotch he'd ever tasted. Her fingers worked the buttons of his shirt with enthusiasm, if no finesse. He was exceptionally glad he hadn't worn a tie today. He lowered his mouth to her neck, smiling as she gasped and then moaned when he kissed the sensitive hollow of her throat. She pulled away for a moment to discard her sweater, but before she could unsnap her bra, he stopped her, opting to slide the straps down, peeling the lace away from the porcelain skin underneath it. Her breasts were worthy of utmost devotion and so he bowed his head to worship with his mouth. Greedy for her touch, he shrugged off his shirt and vest, almost ripping the fine cotton in his haste, but the first touch of her hands on his chest was worth the total destruction of his entire wardrobe. He would burn them all at her slightest inclination.

A thin sheen of moisture bloomed across her skin, and he left no inch of it unexplored. His hunger for her had burned inside for two years, contained but never extinguished. Now it exploded exultantly and the conflagration threatened to consume him. She was wrapped around him like ivy on a tree, her mouth tracing a path to no particular destination, mapping his body with her lips as he had done. He lay panting under her ministrations, needing her fiercely, but wanting to give her the time she deserved. He drifted in a fugue state, for who knows how long, his sole thought was of the woman in his arms, the scent of her on his skin, the taste of her in his mouth.

It was the most brutal sort of poetry, the tangle of bodies in a space too small for them. All that mattered was feeding the greedy beasts that lived under their civilized skins. When they finally merged, it wasn't a polished key into a lock, but a slow stretch of muscles not often used, gasping breaths and ragged moans. Red had never felt or seen anything like Lizzie; her blue eyes wide and blind with her pleasure, engulfing him in her heat, and his last breath before the abyss was her name.

Her hand stroked his shoulder as they lay, his eyes slid closed in the warmth and stillness.

"Red?"

Lizzie's voice was much louder than it should be. He opened his eyes to see her standing beside him, smiling. It took him a moment to focus, but when he did he was confounded to find her cool and calm and…fully dressed. His heart shattered like the glass of the window.

"Are you okay, Red? You fell asleep. I wouldn't have woken you, but you seemed restless. I thought you might prefer to go to bed." The concern in her voice salted the wounds. Better that he go to his room, because right now he felt like weeping, and that would not be something he shared with Lizzie.

"Thank you, Lizzie. I must've been dreaming. I'll see you in the morning."

"You're sure you're okay? You were so agitated. It must have been some dream."

He managed a half-smile as he started up the dark staircase, trying to shake away the feeling of her touch. It was just another night with his ordinary demons, and his Lizzie naught but a dream within a dream.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I blame the Muse in Residence of the LS group for this. Un-beta'd and disclaimed, but I hope it's enjoyable.

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The Angel

The tiny glass angel sat on her bedside table. Reddington had bought it for her years and years ago, and had only just given it to her recently. He told her she had been his touchstone, his angel who had saved him from the fire. He had bought the little figurine to remind himself of her. He gave it to her when they reached their first safe house.

"Perhaps this will remind you, as it did me."

What it was supposed to remind her of, he never said. She had pulled the trigger of the gun to save him, to save her friends, to save herself even. But in doing so, she now wondered if she had lost the only man who had ever believed absolutely in her. The only man she could trust to never tell her a lie, even when it would have spared him her anger. The man she had grown to love, almost without realizing it.

He had called himself her Sin Eater. Lizzie wondered if he simply never realized how much darkness lived inside of her. He tried to absorb her misdeeds, to keep her on the side of angels, forgetting as he did so, that she was never one of them. She was no longer his angel, and she couldn't figure out how to make him see her as a woman.

They were together constantly now; they had become acquainted with each other's idiosyncrasies. Red liked to listen to jazz at all hours of the night, Lizzie tended to use all the hot water with her showers. Yet still, Red kept space between them. It was a moat of silence, and Lizzie lacked the courage to attempt to breach it. She told herself that she wouldn't go where she wasn't wanted. She stayed out of Red's space. If his door was closed, she kept herself away. Over the months, she could feel herself…shrinking away from his gaze, even as she began to truly explore her feelings for him.

It began as a simple way to reduce the tension. It was only natural for a healthy woman to have needs. Her circumstances were somewhat less than ideal for seeking an adequate partner of course. Besides, the only one she wanted to touch was well beyond her bloodstained fingers. So it began as furtive touches in the darkness of her room, hidden safely under the blankets, smothering any sound with a hand clamped over her mouth. As time wore on, everything about him fed the fire under her skin. She worried sometimes that he could see it. But he never looked.

The night in Vegas, after they fought their way out of a particularly contentious meeting, she thought her moment had come. That at last, he would take her off the high shelf on which he had placed her. She almost got her wish; his hands had learned her body with admirable speed, as though he had dreamed of touching her for months. Her face still flushed a little when she thought of his mouth on her, pushing her further into the abyss that waited for her. But when she had reached for him, to return the pleasure, to share it with him, he had turned away. She spent most of that night wondering if he thought of her as spoiled, sullied.

Now it was night at the cottage in Nantucket, Red was asleep and dreaming on the couch, she studied him by firelight. The way it warmed his skin, turned his long eyelashes to gold. She was tempted to touch him, maybe just a little. To see if it was as warm and firm as it looked. But she made herself stay in the chair, even when he began to moan in his sleep, even when the moans became her name. Lizzie stayed seated, lips compressed into a line, how she wanted to hear those sounds in a different context. She could see the effects of the dream on his sleeping form, and her hands clenched against the desire to feel it for herself. Finally it was too much, she had to awaken him. The bereft expression on his face when he shook off the embrace of Morpheus broke her heart as she watched him climb the stairs to his bedroom.

The fire had burned to ash and the hour was late when Lizzie finally made her way to her room, cursing as she banged her shin on the four-poster bed. She stripped off her clothes without bothering to turn on her lamp. She didn't want to see the tiny angel sitting there, mocking her. The sheets were cool and crisp against her skin and she lay quietly, trying not to think of the way Red sighed her name in his sleep. Like a benediction, an absolution. Her fingers slid under the blankets, seeking the heat and tension between her thighs, his name on her lips like a prayer. The visions in her head spiraled around, pulling her nerve endings tighter with every stroke. She didn't bother to muffle herself, thinking Red asleep, or perhaps she no longer cared if he heard. As the wave of pleasure crested within her, she saw the glimmer of the angel on the table and without a second thought, sent it crashing to the floor. Lizzie lay panting, staring at the shards of glass scattered over the hardwood, when a knock at the door sounded. It took her a moment to answer, to get her breath back. She saw the handle turn and yanked the sheet over her breasts before the door opened just a sliver.

"Lizzie, are you okay? I heard noise."

"Yes, Red, I'm fine. It was just a dream."

He closed the door without another word and Lizzie was alone again, with a broken angel, in the dark.


End file.
